


we'll go down with this ship

by InkyNix



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Magic, idk what to tag this i won't lie, lysol tillian, they're on a boat, thorne edwards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyNix/pseuds/InkyNix
Summary: A series of writings about a fae-cursed first mate and a carpenter with nothing to lose. They're gay, it's a wonderful time.





	1. Chapter 1

The flickering of the lighter against his cupped hand was soothing, almost hypnotizingly so, as Lysol lit the cigarette in his hand and took a long drag. He released the breath, letting the smoke spill from his lips and curl in the air in front of him, his glasses fogging slightly. It had been a long, long trip.

It was just an average cargo transport, nothing special. Take these exotic fruits from one island to another island. He didn’t expect to be going ‘home’, nor did he want to go ‘home’. It was his fault for missing it on the map until it was much too late.

He had come from an island that bled with magic, headed by creatures who knew that they held prowess over the lowly humans, such as himself. It wasn’t uncommon to see a human attempting to master the magic, and typically only scratching the surface of what they had to offer. They, the fae that inhabited the island and gripped it with an iron fist.

Yes, humans typically trained and could only master a fraction of the spells that the fae had to offer, which put them worlds ahead of the average man.

It was less common to offer one’s child.

Lysol’s free hand absentmindedly went to his shoulder. Angry red scars similar to burns still marred his skin, burning and throbbing when his magic was overexerted. They were ‘gifted’ to him by the fae, his father having had offered him as a tribute to gain the favor of the fae. A wizard child on the island brought the family great respect, and his father was a proud man. Any ounce of respect he could get, he would take.

He took another drag and let out a shaky breath. He was ever so grateful that, in the brief amount of time that they had been docked there, they hadn’t seen his father, old as he must be at this point.

Lysol caught his reflection in the water. All things considered, he was fairly young at only 34 (Not as young as his captain, of course, but she was in a league all of her own), yet his hair was already streaked with gray. Whether this was due to his magic or his escapades following his captain was unknown to him.

She didn’t deserve to be thrown into his past, a past that she had nothing to do with. If anything, her father was the reason he was even alive. He hoped that she would never learn what he had been through entirely. But she’d seen his scars and she was curious, and Gods knew it was impossible to take that girl’s attention off of something she was curious about (He shouldn’t call her a girl. She was a captain and a wife. But he couldn’t deny that, occasionally, he would look at her and see the young girl he’d taken care of after her parents had passed).

“Oi, Mr. Tillian! You’re up late!”

Lysol stifles a jump and turns to face their new carpenter. Thorne Edwards, a man near his age with an optimistic disposition and a strong body that reflected his profession.

“I could say the same of you, Mr. Edwards.” Lysol nods at him, trying to conceal the cigarette before Thorne raised a hand.

“None of that Mr. Tillian, we all have our vices. I won’t be shaming you for yours.” Thorne leans against the ship as Lysol is doing, “’Sides, you’ve been tense since the third day we’ve set off. If you’re worried about the ship, I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Only water getting on the ship goes in the captain’s personal pool or our bellies.”

Lysol chuckles. “I have the utmost faith in your abilities. You wouldn’t be on this ship in the first place if I didn’t.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Tillian.” Thorne bows with a flourish, dark hair falling into his eyes. Lysol can’t help but chuckle again. He enjoyed this man’s company, he wouldn’t deny it.

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Edwards, but I assure you that I’m fine.” Lysol says, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the ocean below, “The occasional indulgence helps to broaden my attention span while I work, if it were.”

“First Mate Lysol Tillian, procrastinating on his book and paperwork? Why, I must be dreaming, or perhaps the sawdust has gotten to my brain.” Thorne laughs before giving Lysol a kind smile, “But in all seriousness, I do hope you aren’t overworking yourself. You provide a lot to this ship and her captain, you deserve the good health.”

“Am I not taking a break as we speak?” Lysol holds up the cigarette.

“Permission to speak out of line?”

“Granted.”

“I don’t think that you’re taking a break as much as you’re pondering over a previous event. And that’s hardly a restful activity, given the stress in your shoulders.”

Lysol sighs, taking another drag before responding. “Yes, yes I suppose you’re right in that regard.”

“May I ask what’s troubling you, Mr. Tillian?” Thorne asks, concern lacing his tone. Lysol looked up at his deep blue eyes with his own tired green ones.

“Lysol is fine, Mr. Edwards. I suppose I’m hardly your boss at the moment.” Lysol pinched the end of his cigarette between his fingers to put it out. It burned, but he’d much rather deal with the sting of the fire than scrape the ash out along the side of the ship that Thorne had worked painstakingly to re-panel after their last run-in with a Kracken. “And as much as trustworthy as I peg you, my troubles are hardly your worries. Your concern is deeply appreciated, though.”

Thorne doesn’t look convinced. “If you don’t wish to talk Mr. Til- Lysol, then I won’t force you. But I implore you to consider joining me for a stiff drink below deck on one of your slow nights. If those even exist, of course.”

“Stiff drink?”

“One-hundred-year-old scotch. I save it for occasions when my words need a little extra help getting to my mouth. That’s what my father gifted it to me for, anyway. And good Gods watching over us, it is blissfully warm going down. Think it might do you some good. Think about it.” Thorne heaved himself up from his leaning position, stretching himself out, “It grows late, I’m going to bed. Oh, and Lysol?”

“Yes, Mr. Edwards?”

“Thorne is fine.”

Lysol watches the man wink at him before heading below deck, his footsteps thunking on the wooden steps. He can’t help but smile a little.

Perhaps he would consider this drink.


	2. Chapter 2

The rooms below were surprisingly cozy considering the size of the ship. Lysol’s office in particular was a lovely spot on the ship, converted from his old room when he was a child at the former captain’s side. It was warm, full of books, and one of Lysol’s most favorite places on this earth. He often pondered in there, which is what he was doing that evening.

Specifically about a dark haired carpenter and his offer to share a drink or two.

Lysol thumbs the page of the book open in front of him. He wouldn’t deny that Thorne was good company, and a conversation with someone his age would probably be good for him (The captain was fond of a young crew). Still, there were the connotations that came with the title ‘first mate’. Respectable, intimidating, surly. All these were descriptions he wanted made of him by the young twenty-somethings, but never by a friend. Would Thorne treat him that way?

He seemed rather casual that night, and he’d heard him call him by his given name when the youngers weren’t around. They’d shared amused glances if they happened to be in the same place as a naïve sailor, and his reports on the ship’s conditions had begun to maintain a pleasant mixture of professionalism and casualty. Perhaps his worries were unwarranted.

He finds himself standing and collecting his coat as he considered all of this, his body moving towards the door practically on its own. Okay, apparently he was doing this.

Going to have a drink. With a friend. Alone. For funsies.

That gnawing in his belly wasn’t worry, what on earth was he thinking?

He finds himself at the carpenter’s door, knocking politely. Perhaps it was too late in the evening and Thorne had already gone to bed? This was a foolish idea, there was still time to return to his-

The door opens to reveal Thorne, his short tie undone and hung around his neck. He looks surprised to see Lysol standing there and his expression melts into one of mirth as he leans against the doorframe nonchalantly. “Am I answering to Mr. Tillian or Lysol this fine evening?”

“Lysol is fine, Thorne.” Lysol chuckles at the distinction that must be made now, “I hope I’m not interrupting your evening.”

“Far from it. May I ask what brings you to my humble abode at this hour?”

“I was hoping to take you up on your offer to share some sentimental scotch.”

Thorne’s grin took up his entire face as he moved to let Lysol into the carpenter’s quarters. “Then please, make yourself comfortable while I unlock the cabinet!”

Lysol stepped into the room and did a quick look around. It, like many others on the Silver Gryphon, was a cozy little room. A loft bed overlooked a desk cluttered with various blueprints and measuring tools. Lysol had been certain that he knew what a ruler looked like until he laid eyes on the funny shapes on the desk. Aside from that there was a comfortable looking couch that Thorne had brought on the ship himself, along with a table and a myriad of cabinets. Thorne swiftly unlocked one, taking a small wooden crate and a couple of glasses out of it.

“I do hope that your answer to my calling card was brought upon by pleasure and not despair.” Thorne remarks as he uncases the beautifully spun bottle and pours out the glasses of scotch.

“Ah, is it so much as to desire a conversation with the only other man on this ship? I tire of playing with the children.” Lysol teases, sure that his captain had bolted up in her bed and was surely plotting his gruesome demise.

Thorne laughed and handed him his glass, the liquid inside a tantalizing brown. “Ah, it does feel nice to converse with someone who was an infant the same time as you. But I dare say that the captain would have your head if she heard you sat that.”

“Oh, that much is certain. But when I speak of her, I mean the sort of child that is a beloved younger sister. The cabin boys are something else entirely.”

“And the doctor?”

“Keeps me alive, so I really can’t complain.”

Thorne laughs again, sipping his drink. Lysol does the same. Thorne had been right when he assured Lysol that it went down smooth, it was an incredible drink. “Younger sister, eh? Certainly a familial way to describe one’s captain.”

“Yes, well.” Lysol swirls the liquid, “The captain and I go back farther than she remembers. I was crew for her father, after all.”

“Were you now?”

“Cabin boy at the spry age of nine.” Lysol nods, “He was the first man to offer me a job, and I’m glad he did.”

“Twenty-three years is an exceptional career. And you seem light-years away from retirement.” Thorne says with the respect a man like Lysol is due, “And the captain seems incredibly fond of you.”

“I should hope she is, I’ve been at her side her entire life. If she wasn’t, I would consider myself a failure.” Lysol’s chuckle turned forlorn at the thought of such a notion, “But yes. When she isn’t my boss, we’re like family. I would lay down my life for her without a second thought.”

“You’re a caring man, Lysol.”

“Let’s just say I have footsteps that need avoiding.” Lysol takes another sip of the drink. There really was something about it that soothed him to the point of difficult conversation. It wasn’t magical or drugged as far as he could tell. Perhaps it was less the drink and more the open mind of the man in front of him.

“You sound like your time before the seas weren’t much to write home about.” Thorne says, “I won’t ask you to speak of it if you don’t wish to. A man’s spoiled childhood is anything but easy to discuss.”

Lysol blinks at him. Had he seen through him so easily? He shrugs and finishes the glass (A little had gone a long way, he’d had more than enough to savor).

They stayed up chatting long after the drinks were gone, learning whatever they could about the other. Lysol was self-educated and Thorne had come from a long line of master carpenters. Lysol was a wizard and Thorne was proficient in the art of the cutlass. Lysol’s favorite color was dark blue, and Thorne’s was forest green. Silly things to most, but they ate up each other’s words like the finest meal they had ever eaten. They got lost in one another, and Lysol realized that the tension that had been building in his shoulders since they docked on his home island had all but melted away. Talking, nay, laughing with Thorne was soothing to the soul.

“If I may risk making the conversation awkward, Lysol,” Thorne says in the third hour of Lysol’s visit, “I must ask how you’ve mastered the art of looking both gracefully young and majestically mature at once.”

Lysol laughs, ignoring the rising warmth in his cheeks and blaming it on the drink from earlier, “It’s credited to a combination of epic adventures at sea and the captain’s recent leap from the cliffsides. She’s determined to make me an old man before I’m forty, I swear!”

“Ah, you’re far from an old man. I dare say you have more pep in your step than half of the boys running on the deck!” Thorne claps him on the back, the entire crew knew to be gentle with Lysol’s shoulders.

“And who am I comparing myself to? I daresay Thorne, your muscles are reminiscent of those well-toned knights from those novels I see young ladies swooning over.” Lysol lightly pokes one of Thorne’s biceps.

“Ah, they can have their knights. Never was drawn to the idea of a lady on my arm.” Thorne shrugs nonchalantly.

“Not a romantic man?”

“Actually.” Thorne suddenly seems close, though Lysol doubted that he was aware, “I prefer a fine gentleman.”

Lysol couldn’t deny the warmth this time. “Funnily enough, so do I.

Now Thorne’s cheeks were pink. He swallows and licks his lips. “Lysol, at the risk of making the conversation awkward again, may I ask how tired you are?”

“Far from it now.” Lysol answers honestly. Now he was closing some of the space between them. “Why do you ask?”

“I wish to see exactly how spry you still are.”

Lysol chuckles and presses his forehead to the larger man’s. “As you wish.”

Lysol didn’t return to his office that night.


End file.
